The Insomnia Club
by Universitas
Summary: (Bro!Ryder/Gil) In which Gil isn't the only one losing sleep on the Tempest.


"Thought I'd find you here."

Power readings forming a straight horizontal line on a graph on his omni-tool, Gil Brodie climbed out of the Nomad. "Where else would I be?"

"Up in the cockpit, cuddling with Kallo?" Ryder's usually neat hair was a scattered mess, and his eyes flickered between open and half-lidded. He took small steps barefoot on the cold metal of the cargo bay, wearing shorts and an undershirt. "How long have you been awake?"

"Forty hours and counting. I finished the repairs to the ship two hours ago, then I remembered those shield upgrades you sent me before dinner. Figured I'd start installing them." He'd considered working on the fluctuations in the rear-left shield emitter, but at this point, even he was sensible enough not to risk a small explosion from a sleep deprivation whoopsie. Instead he settled for making minor optimizations.

After working alone in the cargo bay for five hours, another person's voice proved a nice shakeup from the hum of the _Tempest's_ drive core and the whirs and clacks of tools. In Ryder's case, however, the break in monotony was especially welcome—now more than ever.

"Plus," Gil said, "I was out of ideas for poems."

"I'm sure 'Heleus, are you healing us' won't be your last spark of brilliance."

Gil groaned. "Please don't quote that when the crew's awake. So what brings you here at this hour?"

"Joining the insomnia club. This past week, I've been running on less than twenty hours of sleep total, a lot of SAM's help, and an even bigger lot of coffee."

This past week… the inkling broached memories Gil would've rather not revisited. But _"thought and attention,"_ he told Ryder on Eos. _Make good on it._

"Is it something you want to talk about?"

"Only if you want to hear it."

"I asked." Gil dismissed his omni-tool and sat on the deck. Ryder followed suit. "It's about what happened on the Archon's ship, is it? That was a week ago now. How you… died."

"Good guess. Well, it's not exactly about that. Related. I'm over it, mostly."

That struck Gil as more than a little odd. "SAM stopped your heart with no guarantee he'd be able to bring you back, and you're okay with it?"

Ryder shrugged. "I'm alive now, right? I try not to think about the bad alternate ending. You know, for my sanity." A small concerned frown crossed his face. "But it's not okay with you, is it?"

"Just promise me you won't have to do that again. Those few seconds… well, they sucked. As in _really_ sucked. I was listening in on the whole thing, you know."

Gil liked to keep the ground team's comm channel open when they were doing something important. Ryder's barked orders, muffled gunfire and explosions, SAM's status updates, and all the other high-intensity chatter made for a chaotic sort of focus music. An iota of extra concentration meant an extra few meters per second squared on the _Tempest_ 's acceleration. In a daring escape, that tiny speed boost was all the difference.

 _"Stopping your heart now"_ was a very different story, the soundtrack of horror vids that glued your eyes to the screen. Gil watched Ryder's status display go red on the channel window. As it remained red, he filled those few seconds with a hundred mutters of "shit." Then the display turned back to green. Ryder's voice came through the audio feed. He cracked a joke. And Gil released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. There was something symbolic—and morbidly appropriate—about that.

"I'm sorry I put you through them," Ryder said.

"I guess if SAM hadn't killed you there, the Archon would've done worse later, right? And let's not think about _that_ bad ending. For both our sanities."

"Deal."

"But you're right. SAM pulled through, you're alive, that's what matters. And after that mess, I got to take you to Eos to stun Jill into silence. Now we're here, chatting about…" Gil furrowed his brow. "Wait. I thought this was gonna be about you, not me."

"Oops."

 _Should've expected this_ , Gil thought, amused. Ryder liked to talk, but more impressive was his ability to get other people talking about themselves. Peebee, of all people, spent half a dinner rambling about her student research on Hyetiana because of something Ryder said. When Gil pointed out how out-of-character that was for her, she turned to _Lexi_ and asked for a checkup.

"Everybody else before you. Is that how it always is?"

Ryder let out an exaggerated sob. "Because helping everyone else lets me ignore my deep-seated emotional baggage. My sunny disposition's all a carefully constructed facade to make sure nobody sees it. Oh Gil, you've figured me out. Now fix me."

Gil laughed. "I'm not the first person to notice this, am I?"

"Sara beat you by over six hundred years. Honestly? It's just how I am, and I like it. I work through my own issues on my own time. If I need help, I talk to someone. Like now."

"Except you went and made this about me."

"I can't help it. It's basically reflex at this point."

"A true altruist. Almost as rare as a unicorn. Now, can we please talk about what's been bothering _you_?"

"Right. So." Ryder shifted backwards against the Nomad. "It's not even anything new. Dying just made it impossible for me to stop thinking about my dad. How he died."

He never talked about his father, Gil realized. Ryder's adoration for his sister came through in every mention of her. He mentioned memories of his mother with fondness and a wistful smile. But Alec Ryder? Only if someone brought him up, and even then Ryder worked his magic to change the subject.

Gil scooted in closer.

"I asked SAM if he could've saved him," Ryder said, a solemn thoughtfulness seeping into his expression. "Told me the combination of my dad's injuries from the fall and the toxic atmosphere made it impossible, even if SAM put my dad into some kind of stasis. I'm not a 'what-ifs' kind of guy, but if my dad was still alive…"

"Nothing wrong about missing him."

"That's the thing. 'Take some time to grieve.' Everyone told me that. Cora sent a verse from one of her asari texts. Liam made me a playlist. Drack? A folder full of pictures of guns."

"Did they help?"

Ryder shrugged. "Can't say. I never took the time. I don't even know if I actually miss him. Usually I'm pretty good with feelings. Angara good. But when I heard my dad died, I didn't really know what to feel. Thought it was just the shock of everything hitting me at once, but even after I got used to the Pathfinder deal and SAM being in my head… I'd think back to my dad and draw a blank. It's not like I don't care about my family."

"I don't think anyone can say that," Gil said.

"And I'm not incapable of grieving. When my mom died, well, I was kind of a mess." Ryder leaned his head back on the Nomad's hull. "Guess it's hard for me to mourn someone I hardly knew. Even if he's half the reason I exist. _The_ reason I survived Habitat 7. After that, shouldn't I be toasting his memory every chance I get and dedicating all my achievements to his great legacy? He died for me, and I still can't figure out how much he matters to me."

What was there to say to that? For Gil, family meant Jill, a relationship that was evidently the total opposite of what Ryder was describing.

"Tell me about him."

Ryder laughed bitterly. "That won't take long. Grew up in the Sierra Nevadas, one of the first humans to go through a mass relay, met my mom during his N7 training, military attache on the Citadel, fathered Sara and me around that time, dishonorably discharged for AI research, joined the Andromeda Initiative to finish SAM, and talked Sara and me into following him."

Reciting a biography out of a personnel file spoke volumes. "And as a father?"

That got a pause out of Ryder. "Distant. Awkward—uncomfortable awkward, not adorable awkward. Focused on his work. Sara liked that about him. I sure didn't. My mom told me once, 'when it comes to people, you're nothing like your father.' Took that as a compliment."

"If he sacrificed himself for you, he has to have cared."

"Sure he cared. I get that. One big definitive 'yes' to a question I came to Andromeda to answer. I wanted _him_ to answer it, not his death. Not a bunch of memories."

"Memories?"

"Oh. Haven't told you. Before my dad died, he had SAM store some of his memories for me to unlock. But what am I supposed to do with them? I can't talk to them, I can't build anything out of them. Sure, they're telling me a lot, but they're also leaving me with questions I might never get answered. Like the one giving me a small crisis right now."

In an ideal, disaster-free world, someone else would be captaining the _Tempest_. That person existed in a dim memory of an orientation video, looming silently behind Jien Garson as she congratulated the viewer on their acceptance to the Andromeda Initiative. But "Pathfinder" meant the man sitting next to Gil, not the faceless enigma in red and black. That was how it was supposed to be.

Alec Ryder, however, wasn't faceless to his son, close to it as he was.

"Whew," Ryder said. "Too bad the galley's Drack's bedroom. Emotions make me hungry."

"Good thing you're talking to the _Tempest's_ resident insomniac." Gil stood up and offered his hand. This was something he could do more than ask questions about.

He led Ryder to an empty workbench in the corner of the cargo bay. A small bin, deliberately left unlabeled, sat inside the lower cradle.

"Let me guess: secret stash?" Ryder asked while Gil rummaged through its contents.

Gil pulled out a box of Blast-O's, a bowl, and a spoon, then set them on the workbench. "Bingo. Sorry there's only one bowl. I'll steal another before our next midnight chat." He gestured. "For now, all yours."

"It's your stash."

Eyebrow raised, Gil slipped off his gloves. "Griff. Our first argument isn't going to be about tableware. Just have them."

Ryder raised his hands in surrender, then made a show of taking the bowl off the workbench.

A few minutes later, they were back by the Nomad. The only sounds were cereal pieces rustling against each other and against metal as Ryder poured himself a second helping. Meanwhile, Gil picked another few Blast-Os out of his palm. Five mouthfuls for Gil were the whole bowl for Ryder.

"What's the rush?" Gil asked.

Ryder swallowed a last spoonful and grabbed the box. "Habit. Sara and I raced to finish dinner when we were kids."

"Who usually won?"

"Sara. She beat me at basically everything. Except for waking up from cryo, I guess. One more reason I don't plan on dying again any time soon." He smiled faintly. "I am giving her the biggest hug when she wakes up. Then I'll give her the Pathfinder title and the ship before retiring to a nice planet with a beach."

"If I'm losing sleep keeping this ship running, it better be for the Pathfinder. Not just a Pathfinder. _The_ Pathfinder."

"Your Pathfinder?"

 _"I'm your guy, Gil."_

Gil chuckled. "Sure."

As Ryder poured bowl number three, the downpour of Blast-Os died down to a trickle, then a shower of cereal dust. Staring blankly at the box, he mouthed a syllable.

"Don't worry about it," Gil said. "Vetra has a whole crate. Besides, you're the one using biotics as an excuse for extra food at dinner."

"That's not going to stop me from feeling embarrassed."

Adorable embarrassment was a step up from a few minutes ago. Most what-ifs probably focused on Alec Ryder finding a new home in Andromeda. His son, meanwhile, was hung up on a what-if about a do-over cut short, on a hole where certainty should've been. Meanwhile, talks with Jill were more often over omni-tool than in person, but physical presence didn't matter. Gil had her back, she had his, and they both knew it.

He paused the train of thought on that last bit, glancing at Ryder. "Hey. About what you were talking about earlier…"

"You mean my deep-seated daddy issues?"

"Right. Those." Gil laid his hand in Ryder's. Some gentle warmth, a sense of safety, grew in his chest when Ryder laced their fingers together. On the field, Ryder absorbed all the fire he could with tech armor and shields and barriers, but this safety lay simply in his steady breathing. The reminder that yes, Ryder was alive. Gil caught himself hoping that safety business was mutual.

 _Say what you mean to say before internally gushing._

"I wish I had your talent for saying the right thing to make everything better. Honestly, I'm not sure how I can help here. This seems like something you need to decide for yourself. But whatever you choose, I'm with you. And if you come up with something and you need to talk about it, I'll have two bowls of Blast-O's ready and waiting. Two or three boxes, too. For the biotics."

"I wouldn't call Blast-O's high-calorie…" Ryder picked up the empty box to check the nutrition facts. "Never mind. But seriously. Thanks. Even if I just vented and stole your cereal, those feelings needed airing."

"They—and you—deserve a listening ear. Since I'm 'your boy' now, I should be taking some of the load off Lexi. Did I mention how much I enjoyed the way you struck Jill speechless?"

Ryder leaned back on the Nomad. "I thought you would. You know, this gold-painted hull's actually kind of a nice pillow right now."

"You're actually going to sleep here?"

"I would, but then I'd be asking SAM to help me with neck cramps, and I think he's earned a break from holding me together." With all the sluggishness of sleep deprivation, Ryder started pulling himself to his feet. _Without_ all the sluggishness of sleep deprivation, Ryder's arm lashed out and grabbed Gil by the wrist. "You've earned a break, too. Give your bunk some love before it gets too needy from neglect."

Gil felt himself going along with Ryder's AI-enhanced pull. "These upgrades—"

"Will be here in a few hours. Don't make me pull rank. As much as I love your late-night poetry, you need the shut-eye more."

Gil sighed. "Yes, sir."

He spared the Nomad a goodbye glance as Ryder led him out of the cargo bay.


End file.
